User blog:Keystone Gray/Journal Entry, 15 November 2845
Entry Date: November 15, 2855 *'Name: Corra Dald' *'Title: Janitor (MOS: NC-11J)' *'Rank: Private First Class (PG: E-2)' Well, no one wants to talk to someone caked in Vanguard oil and whatever kind of nanite grease they store in the maintenance room. The combination makes one smell like a wet diaper wrapped in burnt cow droppings. I wouldn't know of course, I'm used to the damned smell. So, I might as well start talking to myself. As good a reason as any, right? It happened very quickly, and it wasn't something I could've backed away from. A section of the Warp Gate's dome shield lost power, and some Vanu freaks rolled right in. The complex took a neat little shelling when I was mulling around in the maintenance room. When I was asked what I was doing in there, I simply said I was looking for the payload technician - no one really needed to know what I was doing there, I guess. In any case, one of the nanite tubes burst open and... well, there ended my life. Only, when the replicator brought me back, I had the scent of hell and finely aged cabbage. I grew up in Amerish, so I know what cows smell like. They stink. Somehow, I can't smell that smell anymore, or at least anything that smells like it. Apparently the showers don't work on said smell; one of the techs said the nanites might be glitching out and constructing the chemical makeup that constitutes the oily, shitty scent. Joy. I'm permanently a cow turd. So, until the research team can find a way to get those nanites to shut themselves down, I've been indefinitely reassigned to janitorial duty at the Warp Gate in Esamir - which is (warning: pun) bullshit. With my skillset, I should be riding crew on a gunship right now, not sweeping guts out of a medical Sunderer. I doubt my plight is very high on their priority list right now, and I wouldn't be surprised if the lab forgot that this problem even existed, considering how hard they're focusing on this new Vanu situation. They should've just shot me and turned off my replicator; it would've been more humane. Whatever. My old CO doesn't want me going anywhere near our squadron's Lib. That's fine. If she wants to put a substandard tailgunner in my place, that's her business, but when she gets shot down I'm going to laugh. And when it happens again, I'll laugh some more. And when I get the boot for insubordination, and end up in the brig for the rest of my days, I'll laugh for the rest of my life knowing I smell like cow dung and bad cabbage, and there's nothing anyone can do about it except clamp their nose and pray they don't get a whiff. Vodka. Vodka goes well with cabbage. It did for the Soviet Union, in any case. Maybe they had the right idea. Hopefully I can get myself so damned smashed I'll forget that everyone I knew and cared for now hates me. Maybe this is my last will and testament or something. If I get drunk enough, maybe the nanites will freak the hell out and not know how to rebuild me. Here's hoping. Party time. ~ Corra PS: If I do die, this is for Alicia: Screw you, you bloody psychotic harpy. I don't care how I smell, I loved you, you prick. Burning all of my clothes wasn't going to make the smell go away. I leave you nothing. Nothing. You don't even get the cat. That goes to Carl. Maybe the sadistic bastard will tape it to the front of the Lib and use it as a hood ornament, and that will be your fault entirely. Your fault, not mine. PPS: yeh im arlady drank. vodakl saes 'repblik' on itr. fyk th trrrran! yah! wate yt er we givin teran vodkar? watevs its vodk!!!!!!!!! partteeeeeee, dun giv a fik olol Category:Blog posts